


You Know Nothing (Except how to get me going)

by DrStonegarden



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Police, Gen, M/M, Organized Crime
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-29
Updated: 2014-01-29
Packaged: 2018-01-10 12:05:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1159546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrStonegarden/pseuds/DrStonegarden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jon doesn't want to have sex with Satin. Well, he does. It's just that boning your underworld contacts is unprofessional.</p><p>{For the ASOIAF Kink Meme: "Jon is a lonely, dedicated cop. Satin is his streetwalker informant. Jon tries to keep their relationship strictly professional. He tries so hard. Satin isn't having it; he does who he wants."}</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Know Nothing (Except how to get me going)

Satin was leaning against the wall beside his door when Jon came to see him, staring up at the sky, a roll-up in the pale grip of his languid fingers. He looked for all the world like another of Kingsland’s wild youths; permanently high, unashamedly mercenary, and appealingly scruffy.  
  
In truth, Satin was only one of those things.  
  
Anyone looking into his dark eyes would see them clear and alert. The cigarettes were a harmless but pungent blend of tobacco and aromatic chemicals, intended to simulate the smell of mazemind. A harmless stoner among thousands, unless you looked close enough.  
Neither did he count as one of the same thousands trying to claw a living for themselves in the cesspit that was Flea Bottom. But, if only to fit in with his surroundings, his clothes were fashionably ill-cared for and suitably unfashionable. And he did look good in them, as Jon was altogether _too_ aware.  
Moreover, Jon was altogether too aware that Satin knew that Jon knew that Satin looked good.  
  
Satin lowered his head and looked down the street, a smile pulling at his red mouth as he saw Jon. He flicked his roll-up into the gutter and stood away from the wall in one unaffected motion, the kind of liquid movement that had been the lure for many of Jon’s arrests.  
Satin leaned his shoulder against the wall as Jon walked up to him, still smiling, the low v-neck of his shirt affording Jon a view he was determined to ignore for once.  
  
“Don’t look around, and come closer.” Satin said, his tone serious but his face still wearing a smile.  
Jon obliged. Satin was a terrible flirt, but he understood the concept of personal space better than some people Jon had worked with. Satin would never ask Jon to do anything without good reason, and never for his own pleasure.  
  
So Jon stood closer than he normally would, and leaned in a little for good measure, which made Satin’s smile a bit wider. He idly played with the buttons on Jon’s jacket as though they were shy lovers working their way to passion.  
  
“Careful. My sister just sewed those back on.”  
  
“I know. I recognise the stitching.”  
  
Jon did not respond, something he often did when Satin was being particularly outrageous, leaving him in silence to explain.  
He rolled his eyes. “She fixed your trousers after the scuffle we had with Thorns. I remember the stitches. She should be giving lessons to everyone on Needle Row.”  
  
He started to toy with Jon’s collar. Jon closed his hand over Satin’s in an iron parody of an affectionate clasp, pretending his palms weren’t hot as he did so. It was partly for the charade Satin wanted them to play out for whoever was watching, and partly to wordlessly remind Satin how frustrating he was. At least that was what he told himself when he realised he was doing it.  
If Jon was hurting him - which he would never consciously do, however annoying his driven, wily, _pretty_ informant could be – Satin did not show it. He shrugged, and had the decency to look a little embarrassed. “I had a look while you were in my shower.”  
  
“And only a look?”  
  
“What are you saying? You know that one sniff was enough to put me off. I keep telling you to stop using _Scent of Kingsland Gutter_.”  
  
“You said I had to blend in.”  
Satin rolled his eyes. “Smelling like a bloody dump is fine if you want to blend in with the tramps or the hardcore mazeheads. Everyone else? We try to look after ourselves. Perfume, cars, fancy clothes. We buy things we can’t afford as though we don’t give a damn about them. It’s our big _fuck you_ to the bastards who leave us to rot down here.”  
Jon said nothing. A year living with the fleas and he still learned something new every day.  
  
“Why are we doing this?” He asked eventually, after allowing Satin briefly stroke his ear.  
  
“The Squids have been asking around about you. One came knocking for me this mornin’.”  
  
“And?”  
  
“Told them what we agreed. With some… _embellishments_.”  
  
“Embellishments.”  
  
“One of your words, posh boy.” Satin grinned. “Thanks for the dictionary, by the way.”  
  
Jon said nothing.  
  
Satin’s finger moved back to his face, ghosting over Jon’s stubble.  
  
“Like we agreed, I said you was some dropout from Manderly College, that you left the North because of your _dark past_ and that I met you in Dany’s about a year ago. Thought it was my duty to help out a little lost boy from _oop North_ , and we stuck together. I told ‘em we’ve been seeing more of each other recently because you’re my new _favourite client_.”  
  
Jon put a hand on Satin’s hip, applying the same iron hold as he had before. Satin, like a lot of people in Flea Bottom, had been in the business of doing whatever would get him his next meal, at least until his stipend, earned by ratting on whoever Commissioner Barry needed dirt on, made that unnecessary. That meant, with this new elaboration on Jon’s cover, that he could be a client for just about any kind of service.   _Any. Service._  
Even though they were of a height, Jon felt as though Satin were looking _up_ at him, challenging him with those wicked eyes. _Those wicked eyes._  
  
“Why do you do this?” He only realised he’d said it out loud when Satin laughed, taking him by the arm and drawing him into the filthy stairwell of the building.  
  
 **\- X -**  
  
Satin had no idea what Jon was thinking, most of the time. That was probably a good thing, if frustrating for Satin himself. Being regarded as a grumpy loner with a maximum of three facial expressions in a city full of people who were grumpy loners or aspired to be was a good choice of cover for Wonderboy Jon.  But if Satin could not read his handsome face all the time, he still caught glimpses of the man underneath, when they weren’t working, and Jon stared way off into the distance with the same unsettling focus he otherwise gave only to his job.  
 _  
_A _lonely_ man. Not a loner.  
  
Satin wanted to reach out to him. Let him know that he was lonely too.  
It was pitiful, really.  A watchman, one of Stan Barry’s golden boys, undercover in the most dangerous city in Westeros, and a flea, a child of the streets. Two of the bravest (or maddest) people in the city, afraid to just get over themselves and fuck.  
  
 **\- X -**  
  
“If you tell Mel about this-“  
  
Satin cut him off with a laugh, leaving Jon’s never-to-be-fulfilled threat sulking at the bottom of the stairs.  
Satin’s neighbour Mel (short for something long and ridiculous) was the leader of some cult that stood around oil-barrel fires down by the docks, chanting and fucking themselves into religious fervour, night after night. She was devout, dangerous, one of the hottest people on the planet, and totally convinced that an unspecified looming apocalypse could only be averted by Jon and Satin boning each other into oblivion.  
  
No, really.  
  
All things considered, Jon would willingly do so in the unlikely event Mel managed to establish that frenetic and long-denied sexual activity could alter the trajectory of a rogue asteroid or negate the effects of undesirable tectonic activity. One police officer’s self-respect was a small price to pay for, well, saving the world.  
  
 _He would certainly enjoy it._  
  
 **\- X -**  
  
“The window opposite, above Mother Dany’s. The curtain keeps twitching.”  
  
Jon did not look. He knew the building opposite well enough that he did not need to. Mother Dany’s was his favourite café in the whole city, let alone Flea Bottom; a traditional Volantene coffee shop, clean as the sanitised domain of his stepmother and managed with similar fastidiousness.  
  
“Do you know who it is?”  
  
“Squids. They’re doing a background check to see if you’re the real deal or a golden boy stooge. Old Two-Tats owes you for pulling his son out of the Winterfell Grand, but that doesn’t mean he trusts you or s'gonna throw any work your way, especially an unknown quantity like yourself.”  
  
They were standing in full view of their unsubtle observers, in Satin’s window on the first floor, hands clasped between their bodies. Neither of them made an attempt to move apart.  
  
“What did you tell them?” Jon asked, without any indication he was at all annoyed at Satin’s little game.  
  
“Wasn’t specific.” Satin replied. Jon’s eyes flicked up to meet his. Satin’s mouth went dry at the sight of those grey eyes looking at him in a way he liked very much. And was also a tiny bit scared of.  
  
“Good.”  
  
The next thing he knew, he was handcuffed to the radiator with the taste of someone else in his mouth, Jon laughing above him as he drew the curtains.  
  
“Did you just kiss me?”  
  
“I did.”   _Oh gods_. _He did, he kissed me he did hedidhedidhedid-_  
  
“I could do with some help remembering it.” Satin gulped, recovering some of his usual boldness.  
  
“Was I that good? It was only a kiss.” Jon’s deep chuckle vibrated in Satin’s breastbone.  
  
“Like I said, I don’t remember.”  
  
“Well,” Jon replied, teasing Satin’s stubble with a gentle finger, “I’ll leave you until your brain catches up with your mouth.”  
  
 **\- X -  
  
** It was a bit of an uncomfortable evening, but altogether far from the worst of Satin’s life. It wasn’t the first time he had been handcuffed to a radiator by an intended target of his _skills_ ( _but Jon was different, Jon was-_ ) although this time he admittedly didn’t have the immediate concern of escape to distract him from his raging erection.  As if the smell of coffee and the sound of _Small Talk_ drifting through from the kitchen weren’t enough to make him struggle against Jon's heavy-duty handcuffs, because _how dare_ Jon Snow settle in to watch Westeros' premier satire programme in Satin's own home without Satin himself to curl up next to.   
  
 _Now there's a nice image. Sexy bastard_.  
 ****  
\- X -  
  
Jon smiled as the _clink_ of Satin’s struggle against his Watch-issue handcuffs filtered through to the kitchenette, where he was half-watching a rerun of an old _Small Talk_ and waiting until the coffee was percolated to the oil-black, infernal strength he favoured.  
   
In the meantime, he helped himself to a glass of something tall and frosty and probably illegal, wondering when he had become so at home in Satin’s little flat.  
  
He thought about Satin’s smile. The way he looked at him when he thought Jon wasn’t. How they laughed together so easily.  
Thought about his eyes ( _dark and warm as winter wine)_ and his hands ( _smooth palms, rough fingers_ ). He thought about the teasing, the flashes of skin and the outlandish winking.  
Thought that, maybe, giving in – no, not giving in. _Letting go_  wouldn’t cost him anything.  
  
Tomorrow he had to go and see a Squid about a bridge. But today? Today was the day he gave Satin a taste of his own medicine.  
  
He raised his glass in a lonely toast. _To payback. And the future. To us._


End file.
